And The Crowd Goes Wild
by silver-kin
Summary: There was a time when all Demyx wanted was his music. A time when all he wanted to do was pour his heart into his songs. A time now so distant, the happy memory now replaced by hollow feelings and him pretending to hear the applause of an excited crowd.


This was something I came up with while my family and I wandered around shopping. It's just another drabble, I suppose, but I had such fun writing it. It would be a waste not to put this up (since I had every intention of putting this up when I thought of it) so I went ahead and posted this anyways. Hope you like it.

Disclaimer: Kingdom Hearts is the property of Square Enix and Disney.

**And The Crowd Goes Wild**

Before he woke up to find himself a Nobody, Demyx was a person content with the direction his life was heading. His entire life had been devoted to perfecting his playing; to pouring every fiber of his soul into the music he enjoyed hearing. The language he loved unconditionally, the one he could speak fluently, understand perfectly and appreciate more than every person in every single world that existed combined.

Now, the sounds he made could no longer be called music; it was unworthy of such a title. The notes he played had been reduced to just that; notes. With every plucking of a string, a sound so very, very familiar reached his ears, touching the part of him that still remembered what blissful joy it was to listen to music. Yet, that very sound he loved so dearly was no longer something he could recognize; it had been twisted into something entirely different from what he knew, becoming a stranger amidst things he had always associated with himself for as long as he could remember.

Before, the life he lived had not been an easy one. It had been deprived of all the little comforts in life people so casually took for granted, not realizing its worth until it was taken away from them. However, he had never minded the ever present discomforts; so long as he had his music, the world could end for all he cared because frankly, his music was the only thing in life that mattered to him. It was part of who he was, merged with the very person that he was.

Now, the life he once had had been reduced to mere memories, small fragments of a time that once was that he stored in a corner of his mind. It had become something he needed to remember, something to remind him of who he had been before disaster had struck his homeland. It was also something that, when recalled, brought about a wave of so much unreasonable mental pain that every time it happened, he would swear to himself that he'd never think about it again. Nevertheless, his promises would be forgotten, overlooked in the face of fear as the hollow empty feeling he should be accustomed to but could not even begin to familiarize himself with crept into his body, sending shivers to every part of what was left of him.

Before, he played for an audience in order to earn a living. He relied on other people's appreciation for his music, hoping they would drop some of their spare change into his constantly empty pockets. It wasn't exactly everyone's dream way of living, but he had learned to accept it, adapting to it when the life he had been given to him left him with no other choices.

Now, he didn't have to worry about whether his next meal would come or not; everything was provided in the Castle That Never Was. Food, drinks and shelter had all been prepared for him once he agreed to become the ninth member of Organization XIII, a group of beings just as empty and hollow as he was who, like him, yearned for their lost hearts, wanting to actually _feel_ again, and not just live the memories of their Others. But they, unlike him, admitted to their lacking of hearts, whereas he would never come right out and say such a thing, even if those words were the very words he thought everyday.

Before, every minute of his life was spent making exquisite music, be it for himself or for an audience. He could spend hours at a time just sitting in one spot with his musical instrument on his lap, luring out the music he knew was a part of him, deep inside his soul. All he wanted was to keep playing forever but he knew it was an impossible dream; after all, he would surely die one day, it was just a matter of now or later. Realizing this, he had settled for playing for as long as possible, until as long as his life permitted him and only until death would he part with his beloved.

Now, the impossible had happened; he had died and come back, and yet, still he played. His heart had been devoured by the darkness and his body, the only thing left of him, had changed, turning into the Nobody he was now and taking his place in the world that was _never_ meant to be amongst the beings that should _never_ have existed. And still he played. He had become a walking shell, a never-rotting husk left behind by his heart, filled with emptiness. And _still_ he played, persisting in his pursuit for the bliss he once knew, insisting that all he had to do was keep playing and eventually, he would feel again.

Before, the notes he had played so passionately sprung to life, dancing for him in the various atmospheres of the world he knew. Each time they came, they brought with them every part of the heart he had given to them, thanking him in their own unique way, showing their gratitude by singing the wondrous melodies for him and for _him_ only.

Now, the songs he chose to play died the moment they left the strings, wavering pathetically in the air before fading back into silence. They couldn't dance for him, couldn't sing for him the way they used, having lost the heart required to come alive and possessing only an empty echo that continued to remind him of what he could no longer do. It made him despair, knowing there was no way to revive his playing because, really, how does one go about pouring one's heart into something when one no longer has a heart to begin with?

Before, he could lose himself in the music he played, letting everything real fade to the back of his mind. He could forget all about the way he lived, the measures he occasionally had to go to in order to survive in his harsh world. The melodies he played kept him company, taking him away from bitter reality. It was his form of escape from the truth of his world, a way to keep his mind intact.

Now, he could still lose himself in his songs but it was no longer the same; where the blissful zenith once was, there was only regret, as close as he could get to feeling sadness. No longer did he play to get away; now he played to stay, needing something familiar to cling unto, even if that something was so different now. Where once upon a time he could make music flow as easily as breathing, now he had to struggle to play and even then, the sounds he made paled in comparison to the rhapsodies he played before.

Before, people would stop to listen to him play, the pieces of music he chose to play occasionally enticing them, urging them to stay and listen. Their hurried footsteps would slow down to a stop, their rush to get somewhere temporarily forgotten as they listened, hearing his music and actually _hearing_ it. He could entrance them, mesmerizing them with the soft lulls of his melodies, the jovial beats of his happier songs, the dejected moans of unhappiness in his dismal tunes.

Now, no one wanted to hear the sounds he had to offer but he couldn't bring himself to be angry about it. After all, who would want to listen to the empty songs by a musician in denial, drained of the strong energy it used to have? It was a pointless thing to do, listening to him play, because all he could do was pretend to play heart-filled songs, endlessly making up lies to cover up the truth he couldn't bear to accept.

Before, during the rare times he was invited to perform in a concert of some sort, people would unknowingly give his music their full attention. They would listen intently as he brought forth the emotions inside of him, transferring them to the wordless tunes he created. There would be nothing less than silence throughout the entire time he played, people once again becoming fascinated with the melodies he himself had difficulties understanding sometimes, their true meaning having been woven so complexly into the music he played. Because of that, people would deem his music unworthy of a second performance, not liking tunes so dangerously alluring, but the rejection usually came later, long after he finished and the crowd had made their appreciation known.

Now, his only audience was the Dancer Nobodies who were placed under his care without being given a choice, thus forced to obey his every command, and the watery mirror images he formed of himself. Although they, too, listened in silence, their muted attention was different, being the sort of attention that reeked of indifference. Of course, he couldn't ask for anything more; they were no more whole than he was, just as devoid of true emotions as he was.

Before, his ending note, his finale, would be met with eager shouts of approval as an ecstatic crowd goes wild before him, only withdrawing their praise much, much later.

Now, the last sound he makes after every song was met with dull stillness filled with apathy, having no one but eternally silent beings for an audience.

But it doesn't matter; all he had to do was pretend they're applauding, pretend that they appreciate his songs. If all he had to do was lie to himself to make his playing sound right again, then he was willing to keep pretending, willing to keep feigning the emotions he could remember. He would play his songs and stand up and bow to the supposedly excited crowd and their non-existant applause.

Because the only thing that mattered to him was his songs.

**Fin**

What do you think? Is it any good at all? Please let me know, and thank you very much for stopping by to read this!


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